


be mine, valentine

by merrymegtargaryen



Category: Picnic at Hanging Rock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-17
Updated: 2019-02-17
Packaged: 2019-10-29 23:13:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17817377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merrymegtargaryen/pseuds/merrymegtargaryen
Summary: Years after Valentine's Day, 1900, Irma reflects on the vow she made to her true self.





	be mine, valentine

The cup of tea reminds her of something.

A red cloud. A scream. White corsets, fluttering on the wind. 

She’s startled out of her reverie by the sudden and violent press of lips against her cheek. She winces, smoothing it away with a smile when she realizes it’s her husband.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, darling.”

“Happy Valentine’s Day,” she repeats mechanically, keeping that charming smile on her face as he takes the seat opposite her. He hands her an envelope, a pleased grin playing across his lips. It’s an elegant Valentine, a watercolor of cherubim surrounded by delicate lace. Inside, elegant script proclaims  _ Be mine, Valentine! _

“How lovely,” she praises. He’s always chosen the loveliest Valentines, her Richard. He’s an elegant man. Entirely suitable. Her mother had been furious when she’d found out. Somehow, it hadn’t filled Irma with quite the joy she was expecting.

Nothing about Richard really fills her with joy. He’s a perfect gentleman, wealthy, exactly the sort of man she’d always planned on marrying. In some ways, he reminds her of Mike. Had she ever really been in love with Mike? Or had she only loved the idea of him, the suitability of the situation? 

No, she doesn’t think she’d really loved Mike, anymore than she really loves Richard. She had loved Miranda, and she loves Christine.

Christine. In so many ways, she reminds Irma of Miranda. Beautiful. Terrible. Free. 

Christine is an artist. She wears men’s trousers and a monocle, and she lives in the most charming garrett, littered with charcoal sketches and oil paintings and canvases blank and full. One of those canvases contains a portrait of Irma. It’s a beautiful portrait, one that makes her look  _ vulnérable _ , as Christine had put it.

Richard has never seen her vulnerable. She doesn’t think he’s even seen her fully naked, come to think of it. There had always been a scrap of lace somewhere, silken bedsheets to hide her porcelain skin and rosebud womanhood. He doesn’t seem to mind; she thinks that if he saw all of her, saw her the way Christine sees her, he would be quite shocked. 

“...don’t you think?” he’s saying now, and she shakes her head, smiling.

“Sorry, darling, what was that?”

He regards her patiently. “You’re always out of sorts on Valentine’s Day.”

“Am I?” she asks in genuine surprise. She’s always thought she’s managed her emotions rather well. Masked them, rather. How much has Richard seen of them?

“It’s what happened to you all those years ago, isn’t it?” he asks earnestly. “When you were in finishing school.”

She sets down her teacup. “Yes.”

“It still haunts you, doesn’t it? That you were recovered and your friends never were.”

She looks towards the window, watching birds fly past it. “Yes.”

It will always haunt her, how the boulder had slipped in front of her, how she’d beaten it with her fists and screamed at it to let her through. Had Miranda and Marion looked back? Had they even noticed? Had they even cared?

He hesitates. “Do you...want to talk about it?”

She looks back at him, stunned. “Whatever for?”

He shakes his head, sipping his own tea. “I thought it might...help.”

“I don’t like to talk about what happened on the Rock,” she says firmly, picking up her teacup again. 

“No. Of course not.” He sips his tea, watching her. “Darling, are you quite sure you’re alright?”

“Just out of sorts, as you said.” She forces a smile. “I’ll be right as rain tomorrow.”

“As you say.”

Perhaps she’ll visit Christine today. Perhaps she’ll tell her about what happened on the Rock. Perhaps they’ll talk again of running away. To Australia, perhaps. To Bendigo.

To the Hanging Rock. 

  
  



End file.
